


Four Times

by PenShips



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, No robots Just people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenShips/pseuds/PenShips
Summary: Four times when Maeve sees Hector and that one time he truly watches her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I’m running a little hot on muse right now and having just binged the first four eps of Westworld. I thought it would be cool to try and map out a relationship. Of course, I don’t know much about the characters yet-not a lot for Maeve and practically nothing about Hector so obviously take this with a pinch of salt. Other than that, enjoy :)

The first time she sees him, he’s riding into town on his black horse all sombre and handsome with a mysterious air that seems to beckon danger. She takes to his fancy the moment he walks into the bar. His eyes linger on her body, watching the sway of her hips and the outlines of her legs. She always notices these things, it is her job after all. A few well-placed words, a few coy smiles, friendly touches and he’s dragging her upstairs into one of the rooms.

And oh, he’s so gentle and precise in the beginning; hands exploring the contours of her body, fingers delving into her depths and his hot mouth breathing life and fire into her body until she’s left shattered in his arms. Then he has his way with her; he fucks rough and she likes it, nails and teeth, hot dirty words and unstable creaking beds. He knows she’s not porcelain nor is it her first time but still he lays feathered kisses on her body afterwards and traces absentminded patterns on her skin as he drifts to sleep.

In the morning, he pays her and leaves.

Only for a moment does it sting and then she remembers that she’s nothing but a plaything to these men. They come and they go. If she’s lucky they’re gentle and if she’s not, there’s nothing to do but grin and bare it. She’s learn to live with it. It’s just the way of the world. A few days later she hears news of him; a bank robbery, two men dead and he’s made off with a large sum of money. Hector Escaton; wanted dead or alive.

The second time she sees him is an accident. It’s late at night, never a good time for a woman to be out but her madame has fallen ill and she desperately needs medicine from the local doctor. She’s being careful, wearing large baggy clothing and keeps to the shadows. Figures dance around her, only drunkards too inebriated to see through her disguise. Still, she grips the small gun hiding up her sleeve and hurries past; she may fuck for a living but it is always on her terms and the thought of any of these men touching her sends chills down her spine.

Then she spots him and all before he sees her. He’s hiding amongst the drunks, a blanket over his head to further conceal his identity. Her breath hitches in her throat; he still looks dangerous, alluring and memories of his hands on her rise up to keep her rooted to the ground. There are changes this time though; his face has hardened, he looks gaunt and there is a small scar over his right eye but all serve to send a bolt of lust rippling through her.

He looks up, eyes locking onto hers and she looks away, scurrying back to her mission at hand. This is a bad idea. Footsteps behind her quickly matches with her own, side by side and she finds herself being dragged into an alleyway, a knife pressed against her throat. There is anger first in his eyes that melt into confusion when he takes a good look at her. Then he steps away, pockets his knife and proceeds to cut her heart out of her chest.

_Who are you?_

There is a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat but she knows she is to blame. He did not make her think of him on lonely days or when a client couldn’t or wouldn’t get her wet. It is not his fault but she still blames him and the betrayal stings, it burns. She wants him to burn too. Reaching out, she pulls him forward and crashes their lips together. This isn’t going to be like the last time; no soft touches beforehand or a lazy aftermath. She wants to fuck him so hard that he’ll never forget her.

She takes him into her mouth and makes his weep for mercy, slams him against the wall and rides him until he’s gasping for air. And when it’s all over, him spent and sinking to the floor, she untangles herself from his body and smooths her clothing over. Her madame still needs her medicine and she’s wasted enough time. She wills herself not to look back into the alleyway as she starts out, continuing her path to the doctor’s home.

The third time she sees him, the true extent of his cruelty makes itself known. He billows into the bar, the Sheriff’s blood on his clothing and demands a bottle from the barkeep. His temper rises when the barkeep isn’t fast enough and suddenly an entire section of liquor bottles is splattered with blood. She grimaces at the mess; it would take hours to clean but it isn’t something she’s not use to. Usually when a fight broke out between the drunks, she stays out of the way, hiding until it is over or occupying herself with something of more interest.

This time however, she hasn’t even moved from the lap of her current client. Her body frozen in shock at seeing him. She watches his eyes roam over the bar populace, stopping only when he spots her. From the tug at the corner of his lips, she can only assume that he remembers her this time and when he crosses the bar, wraps his hands around her wrist and tugs, she knows that she’s made an impression.

She doesn’t refuse when he leads her upstairs or flinch when he shoots her client for protesting. He’s dangerous, she knows but he’s also, oh so handsome. They undress each other slowly and she takes a water basin from the vanity, using a fresh cloth to wash away the Sheriff’s blood from his skin. As she wrings the cloth out, the red spreading in the basin, he speaks to her of his travels and ask that she tells him of her life too. His voice is so much more pleasant than she’d imagined; baritone with a slight lilt of an accent she cannot place.

He touches her too, with every new story his hands wander down to her sex and he brings her to the edge before pulling away to explore other parts of her. By the time they’ve woven their tales, she can hardly see clearly. The cloth and basin forgotten a long time ago, her hands are occupied, clamping down on his shoulders and holding onto them for dear life. He enters her slowly and stills. It’s torturous but she obliges him and finds herself falling deeper. No man has ever treasured her the way he does.

In the aftermath, he rests his head on her stomach and gazes up at her, a smile forming. She smiles back and wishes this moment would never end but it does and far too quickly for her liking. The peace is broken by a crash downstairs and before she can comprehend, he’s pulling on his clothing and grabbing for his weapon. His hands hover over the door handle and he throws a glance back, eyes roving over her body before he meets her eyes and then he’s gone.

She hears from the drunks afterwards that he’d gotten away relatively unscathed and how he brandishes his gun like nothing they’d ever seen, how he moves like a rattlesnake in the sand. The bounty on his head has tripled and she wonders if she’s foolish to worry.

The fourth time she sees him, he is captured by a couple of bounty hunters. He walks through the town, hands tied in front of him and somehow, manages to find her in the crowd. His smile does not reassure her nor does the tiny bow of his head amuse her. She feels sick when she thinks of his corpse hanging in the town square, children throwing rocks at it as it’s left to rot and fester for a few weeks. His days are numbered; his scheduled hanging fast approaches and nightmares plague her, each more grotesque and disturbing than the last.

She has to do something. She must.

The problem is, she’s not sure what. On the night before his hanging, she finds herself in the Sheriff’s office without a plan but only hope placed on the small concealed gun in her sleeve. She can feel his eyes on her from the cell but she daren’t glance in his direction. Her only focus is on the Sheriff. It’s easy to feign interest and gain his attention; a show of her body, a fluttering laughter and an inappropriate amount of touching.

As he leans in to kiss her, she panics for a moment, eyes snapping towards the cell as her hands moves towards her weapon. Something stops her; a niggling feeling in the back of her mind. A gun is too loud, too messy and she might be a slow draw. So she closes her eyes, counts back from three and closes the gap. The kiss is sloppy, hurried and unwelcome but she’s an expert at pretending. Just as the Sheriff’s unbuckles his pants, something glinting catches her eyes. Small miracles never cease to amaze her.

The letter opener is in her hands and slit across his throat before he can even pull himself out. The Sheriff stares in shock, hands reaching for his throat as though to stop the onslaught of gushing blood, his angry words forming only gurgles to her ears. She ignores the sounds, going straight for the keys to the cells. A part of her can’t believe she’s managed to do it; it feels good, makes her feel powerful.

Hurrying to his cell and opening it quickly, she finds herself almost immediately in his embrace and a kiss that she finds most welcome. Her hands skim over his body, shoulders, chest, arms just to make sure he’s real. It satisfies her to know he’s safe and it’s all thanks to her. She pauses in her revelry of his body when he speaks. He wants her to come with him, to travel with him, to be with him all the time.

Before her brain can process what it would mean, her mouth has already answered.

He watches her sleeping form in the firelight, the way the shadows and light dance across her body and traces the edges of her face, the column of her throat, the rise and fall of her breast, down, down to the in between of her thighs hidden by a layer of clothing. He swallows, throat drying when memories of how warm and tight she’d felt engulfs him. His mouth waters; warm and tight and his. Exhaling quietly, he pushes those thoughts away and focuses instead on the flickering flame from their camp fire. It doesn’t escape him that he still owes her his life.

Her methods, though questionable, are very effective. He wonders if she’d ever want to join him as a partner. He’d never had a partner before, only because he hasn’t found someone he trusts. Most famous bandits have gangs; it’s how they continue to survive but he’s young now, cocky too and he knows he can’t always pull off a job by himself for much longer. It would certainly be nice to have the company.

Drawn to her form once more, he takes in how peaceful she looks and thinks it’s best to let her rest. In the morning, he can ask her what she truly desires but for now, he just wants to hold her close. Positioning himself behind her, he lies down and snakes his arm around her waist as he seeks her hands out. She twitches, mumbles something and turns over, giving him a better view of her face. It’s hard to see clearly in the dark but he manages to trace the outline of her soft lips with his calloused finger, smiling when she furrows her eyebrows and shifts in her sleep.

For now, he likes where he is and welcomes whatever outcome tomorrow’s dawn may bring.


End file.
